


Opening Night

by JennK



Category: Ripley Series - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:51:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennK/pseuds/JennK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Entrenched in Tom's forgery scheme, painter Bernard prepares for another opening night and wonders if it's worth it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Opening Night

**Author's Note:**

> This fan fic is a back story for the character Bernard in the novel Ripley Underground.

Bernard walked through the gallery that evening. He switched on the florescent lights and examined each painting on display. He admired the deep reds, blues and purples he mixed with his own brush. Each stroke matched that of the great Derwatt –even the signature, well especially the signature. This was the third gallery Ed and Jeff set up. The first made him terribly nervous. He kept his hands in his pockets the entire night to prevent anyone from noticing their shaking. When he introduced himself, he slipped his right hand out of his pocket, shook the other person's then slipped it right back in. Nobody knew who he was. He was an admirer, just like all the other patrons. He held his breath as someone leaned in to take a closer look. Each painting posed the risk of exposure.  
It took him nearly six months to perfect his technique, but now there was no discernible difference between Derwatt's work and his own. And with each opening, he felt a little more at ease. Ed and Jeff had dollar signs in their eyes, he knew that. But he took pride in his work. Sure, he made a little profit here and there, but after they split the sale, there wasn't much left. A few years earlier, he dreamed of his own opening night. He dreamed of lining the walls with works signed, Bernard Tufts. He gave that up with the success of the first gallery. He was too good at being Derwatt, and he made too many people too much money to quit. His shoulders rose and fell as he sighed. Then he stepped toward the next painting.  
The Tub. This had to be his favorite. It featured the same cobalt purple Derwatt created a year before his suicide. It took him weeks to get the tint just right. Derwatt had a talent for mixing colors, a skill Bernard still struggled with. He preferred sketching or charcoal, but he had no time for that now. No time for his own art. He came to London to pursue his passion, didn't he? And in a way, he was. He had to remember that. But every time someone admired a "Dewartt", his heart sank a little further in his chest. He wanted recognition in his own right. That wasn't too much to ask for, was it? Any time he tried to bring it up, Ed, Jeff or Tom reassured him that one day, he'd step out of Derwatt's shadow and into the sun. But when?  
His forgeries started to interfere with his personal life. Cynthia knew about them. She neither approved, nor disapproved. She simply encouraged him to find a way to get back to his own work. She'd stand by and watch him paint, then sign "Derwatt." He knew, deep down, she found it immoral. But what could she say? She knew this is how he made a living. It was the only way he could afford to stay in London. If it hadn't been for Tom's idea, he would have gone back to Manchester months ago. And Cynthia had no intention of ever returning.  
He hoped to save enough money for them to marry and buy and apartment together, even a small one. He passed the jewelry store every evening on the way home, wishing he could afford one of the diamonds inside. She deserved a proper wedding, a proper place to live, but he had no money to offer her such things. He grew tired of being a starving artist. But as "Derwatt" that would change. As "Derwatt". That was the problem.  
He stepped to the right and examined his next painting. "The Girl." This one was his riskiest. A young woman with chestnut hair laid back on a sofa, her long, white dress flowing over the edge, with the slightest hint of her bare legs showing. It was Cynthia. She posed for him one evening, and he sketched her. The painting didn't come close to capturing her beauty, nothing could. He finished this one three nights ago, which incidentally was the last time she stayed over.  
His double identity started to strain their relationship. Even when she was around, he felt distracted, tense, nervous, unable to relax. They hadn't made love in weeks. It was his fault, not hers. He couldn't seem to, ahem, rise to the occasion. She kept dropping little hints –running her fingers through his hair, kissing his neck, but he brushed her aside, unable to engage in any romantic activity. He knew that soon, she would tire of this, and then she would probably leave him.  
"Bernard, darling, you simply must come to bed. It's well past midnight," she would say. But he stayed up, working down to the last detail. The first time she became visibly annoyed was the night he finished "The Girl".  
"You'd rather paint me than spend time with me!" she shouted.  
He pleaded with her, told her it wasn't true, but he had to finish his last piece for the gallery.  
She flopped down on the couch in a huff. She brought her hand bag to her chest and waited for him.  
"What are you doing?" he asked.  
"Waiting for you to finish so you can walk me home."  
And that was that. He hadn't seen her since. They had a short phone call yesterday, and despite his insistence, she refused to tell him she loved him. He hoped she'd come to the gallery tonight. Once this was behind him, they could go back to normal. Or so he told himself. He'd give anything to hold her close, even for a second. She put his at ease. He never felt as calm or secure as he did when he was with her. Oh Cynthia, don't you know I'm doing this for us? So we can be together. But it served only to pull them apart.  
In a few minutes, he'd have to brush it all aside, put on a smile and face reality. "Derwatt" completed another collection in Mexico and shipped it to London for the gallery. Yes, the recluse declined to appear to support his own work. Yes, it was strange, but so are most artists, aren't they (aren't we)? Yes, he'd put on the show once again. What choice did he have?  
He heard footsteps coming from the back door. "You're here early," said Jeff.  
"Yeah, thought I should take one last look at my work before it's gone for good."  
Jeff smiled. "I like this one." He pointed to "The Girl."  
"That's Cynthia."  
"I know that."  
"You don't think it's too big of a risk, do you?"  
Jeff swatted the air. "Nah. I'm sure Derwatt could have found some pretty Spanish girl down in Mexico. Or he could have painted his long lost love," he said with a shrugged.  
Lost love, huh? Bernard shuttered at the thought. He checked his watch, 9 p.m. Any minute now, people would start pouring in. Would Cynthia? He'd have to wait and see.


End file.
